They say justice is blind (but the devil knows other ways to see)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: What was it Daryl used to say? Didn't much matter what you said. Mattered what you did. Everything else was just empty talk. Empty promises. And at the end of the day, what good were those to anyone?


**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** AU where instead of Merle dying in season three, Daryl did instead. Set post season five in the ASZ. Where the assumption is that Merle continued his 'positive' character development and stepped up in some way in consideration to the group while still managing to be his same 'Merle-self'. Written for a friend who had her shipping preferences stomped all over and basically lit on fire by the twd tumblr collective. You know who you are, I hope you enjoy.

 **Warnings:** ***** Contains: blood, gore, injury, character death, angst, drama, ust/mourning a relationship she never quite got to have with Daryl, mild sexual content, adult language, adult content.

 **They say justice is blind (but the devil knows there are other ways to see)**

She kept her head down, naturally posed and overly focused when the door to Merle's bedroom creaked open. The sewing in her lap was her disguise of choice today. Needle _flick-flashing,_ repetitive and soothing as Deanna's voice filtered through the quiet. Trying not to get stuck on the irony of it as she mended the torn armpit of one of Merle's long-sleeved shirts. Thumbing the buttons – testing the strength of the threads - as the scent of him rose, thick and surprisingly grounding as the hushed voices murmuring around her shuddered to a stop.

 _Of course it would be Merle._

 _Of course it would be._

 _Damn the man._

 _Damn him right to hell._

She didn't look up until Rick crouched down in front of her, knees cracking. Tired at the joints. Uniform damp and sticking - stained a shocking red around the golden threads of the badge. Fresh like a metaphor.

"He wants to see you."

"Is he lucid?" she asked, quiet, hiding clenched fists in the folds of the fabric. More than aware of the small crowd of people eavesdropping by the foot of the stairs. Carefully avoiding the blood splatter drizzled across the hardwood, leading the way upstairs. She knew the others were there, their support was silent – more presence than anything – but she felt it all the same.

"More or less," Rick answered, expression twisting – a strange mixture of grief and apathy that only seemed appropriate considering the circumstances. "When we found him earlier, he thought Aaron was Daryl – Aaron was kind enough not to tell him different – but he's been in and out since. Either way, he doesn't have long."

She ignored Deanna's assessing look when she brushed past. She thought about saying something. A handful of words meant to disarm and point ones thoughts in another direction. But this time she couldn't find it in her. Let the woman think what she wanted. It didn't matter anyway. Like it or not that part of the narrative was coming to a close. Soon to be safe from pain and prying eyes. She could put it to rest – keep it safe.

So, instead of pausing, instead of dropping her eyes, she kept her head high and followed the smell of sweat and sick-up. Letting the familiar tones of blood and clean linen surround her as the door hushed closed behind her.

* * *

"Hell of a thing you did for Glenn and Maggie," she remarked, as if by way of opener. Settling herself into the rocking chair by the bed as Merle's lashes fluttered. Trying and almost failing to get his lids unstuck as his bare chest – sheened in blood and sweat – played with the dying day, flirting with the slats of light that made it through the blinds.

"Well hello to you too, Miss. Rambo," Merle drawled, quirking a tired brow up at her. "Now ain't you just a sight for sore eyes? Shoulda' known you'd be like this, all slick and sassy while I'm sitting here with a pound 'o flesh gone. Shit woman, we should just call up the Preacher man right here and now and make it official. We're practically made for each other."

"You didn't know, you _counted_ on it," she returned, the corner of her lips twitching into a half smile that he returned ten-fold. "No bullshit, remember?"

There was a weight on her chest, threatening to squeeze the life out of her. Coiling tight in her core as she forced herself not to give in to an inch of it. That wasn't what he needed to see right now. She could give him that, constancy. Assurance through action rather than words.

 _What was it Daryl used to say? Didn't much matter what you said. Mattered what you did. Everything else was just empty talk. Empty promises. And at the end of the day, what good were those to anyone?_

"Why did you do it?" she asked, voice so level it could have balanced a cinder block. Thoughts reeling back to dinnertime four days before. She'd sent Carl upstairs to get him, thinking he'd fallen asleep after his shift at the watch tower, only to find the room empty. According to Olivia he'd breezed in after lunch, taken out a mini-arsenal and left. Saying he was going to bag her a boar and some Jack Daniels. Apparently turning on the charm so high that the woman hadn't thought to question why he need both a semi-auto, a handgun, and three boxes of ammo each for a boar hunt.

"Pup was gonna come early. Anyone and their dog could see that. I was just the only one thinkin' ahead of the bell curve is all," Merle returned, trying to shrug only to stop halfway, wincing when the bandages on his shoulder hinged the movement.

"The clinic here ain't nothing to scoff at, but it sure as hell ain't no hospital. We were gonna need those baby toasters - incubators and shit. We all ain't nothin' but animals after all. The end of the world sure as hell hasn't stopped people from bumpin' uglys," the man finished, greying curls damp against his forehead. Still managing a salacious wink despite the rattling cough that followed.

"Think they'll name the little squirt after me?" he sassed, grinning. A mess of bloody teeth and waggling eyebrows.

"I wouldn't hold your breath," she murmured, amusement bittersweet when she considered why all the cruel ironies in the world seemed to center on one tired little family. "Besides, the betting odds are ten to two it's a girl."

"Nah, it's a boy," Merle insisted, head heavy as it turned from side to side in a confident negative. "That kid has the stones for it ten times over. Callin' it now. It's gonna be Pizza Jr, make no mistake. Still time to change yer' bet before farmer's daughter pops, you know. Heard ol' Abe wanted to sweeten the deal with a couple dozen of your famous cookies, huh?"

She sucked in a careful breath as his chest rippled, hacking up a glob of bloody phlegm into the garbage before settling back into the mound of pillows. Shuddering with the aftershocks and paling in fractions – like the act itself had taken more out of him than it should have.

"How did it happen?" she asked, wanting to keep him distracted as his good hand clutched at the coverlet, fisting like a silent scream.

"Go ask Captain America," he snapped, expression a rictus of pain and snarling, misplaced anger – so familiar it was almost a relief. It was a strange accompaniment to the sound of raised voices out on the street. She only caught bits and pieces of it – _Maggie, water broke, Glenn, help, too early, fresh sheets_ – before she forced herself to continue. Whatever was going on, she knew the others could handle it.

 _Thanks to Merle._

"I know what you told Rick, I'm asking you."

But Merle just shook his head, cocking to the side in place of a shrug.

"Ain't much to tell, luck just ran out is all. Too many in one place. Came funneling down the hall while I was wrestling with some oxygen tanks. I got that blasted thing caught in the skull of one of the assholes that came right through the plasterboard. One got me while my back was turned," Merle returned, gesturing at the bloody prosthetic, buck knife still strapped around the side, thrown filthy across the side table.

"You should have told me," she remarked quietly, not exactly gentle but as punishing as she dared as sweat made tracks down from his temples. The fever soaking his hair to his head in a few bastardized twists. But she kept on looking. Painful as it was, she wanted to memorize it – _know it_ – to create a record to linger over later.

Her hands were relaxed in her lap, a strange counterpoint to the tightness of her voice when Merle just gave her that look he always did. Like he could tell what she was thinking a mile away. "If you'd gone in with backup, maybe…"

Fast feet skipped quick down the hall stairs. Careening against the banister before banging out the door in a flurry of sneaker-squeaks and whispers. _Carl and Enid. Probably off to see what all the fuss was about, to be there for Glenn and Maggie._

"Then we'd probably both be here, sharin' a bunk," Merle shot back, tongue wagging despite the lines deeply etched in the sweat and grit that covered his face. Sobering suddenly as he shuddered through a series of deep ratcheting breaths, looking up at her through his lashes – so much like his younger brother that she swore her heart stopped beating. "And while I don't mind the mental image, I can't say I ain't grateful."

The last smatterings of words were what clinched it. What almost broke through the porcelain façade. But she held onto her composure by her fingernails. Swallowing hard as the man shifted, one leg kicking out of the blankets, sticky and restless as the fever burnt him out in inches.

"Work better on my own anyway. You know that," he defended after a long pause, good hand shaking – water sloshing out of the rim of the glass – as he took a careful sip. Nearly missing the dresser as he set it back down with a careless clunk. "Better one of us buys the farm than both of us. You gotta stick around to keep ol' Rick Grimes, defender of the 'sketchy American way' on his toes, remember? The apocalypse's version of the straight and narrow."

The man's laugh was like ashes, dry and tired as the sound pealed. Curling through the air like the dual tones of a deadly mistake as her lips twitched, flirting with a clear down turn.

"Now," Merle drawled, fixing her with a look as he braced his stump against the mattress, levering himself up a few inches like the difference in height gave him confidence to look her clear in the eye. Firm and no-nonsense as her stomach threatened to twist in on itself, showing its soft underbelly as a thin crimson tide glowed rose-red through the bandages on his shoulder.

"I ain't gonna beg - never. Not my thing, understand? But Sheriff took my piece. Reckoned I might do something stupid or somemat," the man continued, punctuating the sentence by rolling his eyes skyward. The action startling a half-laugh out of her as she quirked a brow.

"You? Something stupid? He must have you confused with someone else," she replied, adding the sarcasm like last rites as the tired, blood-rimed sheen of his eyes lit up the slightest of bits.

She breathed deep, desperate for the freshness and clarity that came along with it when the skiff of a breeze filtered through the open window. Thrushes singing creakily, piping and naturally in tune as Merle's fingers splayed out across the sheets, inches from the tips of her nails only to pull away when they caught each other looking.

"I wanted to get it done before – before they found me - clean and quick. But I ended up getting a flat half a mile from the gates. They spotted me before I could deal with matters all personal like," Merle explained, seeming to take her silence for refusal as he added the rest quick and piece-meal. Not begging, but not really asking either.

"We don't have no choice coming into this world. Reckon we should be allowed to go out the way we choose, only seems fair. Let a dead man do what he wants with his last moments, huh?"

She didn't reply. Not with words. Instead she reached behind her and pulled out the cool stock of a small little Ladysmith out from under the cover of her waistband and placed it in her lap.

The resounding smack of the flat of his palm coming down on his thigh would have startled her if she hadn't been looking. Sharp despite the hacking cough that followed.

"That's my girl," he praised, coughing red until it bubbled up, smeared across his chin. Hating herself just little bit more when she sat on the urge to wipe it away. Knowing the last thing he'd appreciate now would be her calling attention to it – to the weakness and ticking clock it represented - as his breathing grew thready and thin.

"Not your girl," she replied, clinging to the last bit of iron inside her. Forcing herself to say it and hating herself a little bit more when he sobered. Tipping his chin in acknowledgement.

"No," he agreed, aging decades at a time as he winced, body drawing tight as a fresh roll of pain shuddered through him. "Suppose not. People like me ain't that lucky. Another time, another life, maybe. And you'd _still_ deserve better, mind you. But I'd probably be just as selfish. Refuse to give 'ya up to the care of a better man. It's a Dixon trait, you know. When it matters, we play for keeps."

The gun was heavy in her lap. A solid counterpoint to the emotions that threatened to get the better of her as Merle showed her his teeth – tinged pink with surging red and the fetid backwash of hours old vomit.

"Still, we made waves once, remember?" Merle ventured, lids heavy despite the look he fixed her with. Taking her back to the moment where they'd used words like weapons, spitting bullets until she was curling her hand in the collar of his shirt and wrenching him down for a violent kiss.

Even now, she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Merle had been everything she'd never expected Daryl to be. Confident. Experienced. And not afraid of dealing out his fair share of rough-handling as he lifted her up with his good hand – scooping her close. Slamming them up against the wall as he kissed his way down her neck – stubble burning. Surprising her when he took his time, learning her, caring what she liked and when while at the same time, demanding his fair share.

She'd learned more than she probably should have when the mask momentarily fell, catching sight of his face as he slid into her. His expression had been a sullied mix. Transported with something in between disbelief and bliss when he'd bottomed out and gripped her hips. Hard and uncompromising, like one more move would break him. Breathing hard into her hair before he let her start moving.

"Reckon little bro turned over in his grave," he cackled, jarring as the haze of memory lifted momentarily. Watching as Merle's head tipped back in the pillows. Seeming to be speaking more to himself than anything as his gaze turned inward. "Snooze you lose, Darylina. You-"

She wasn't sure who was more surprised, him or her when she realized that somewhere between one thought and the next she'd reached forward. Fingers tangling as she grasped his hand in hers, squeezing gently.

"My brother was a fool for letting you go," Merle started, clearing his throat as a muscle in his cheek ticked in discomfort. Not pulling away, but lingering on the place where skin met skin before his eyes flicked up to meet her. Bereft of their usual banter as he sank a few millimeters deeper into the mattress. "Time runs out. I taught 'im that growing up. You gotta take the good when it comes and enjoy it, because it sure as hell doesn't last. Stupid kid."

She considered the words without filter. Trying to imagine what might have been if the first showdown with the Governor had ended differently. _If Daryl hadn't-_ The mental shake she gave herself was upsetting. Reminding her how looking back had the tendency to wound more than it did heal. Making her think of roads not taken and two very different brothers she found herself caring for in two very different ways.

"Ain't no point in being alone, little mouse. You're still a fine piece of tail, make no mistake. Don't let none of these wound-up bastards tell you different. You're worth ten of every god damned one of 'em," he offered, hand tightening around hers, spasmodic and hinging on too strong as the muscles trembled underneath his skin.

"Now, you go on now," he rasped, tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes lingering like words left unsaid as she felt tears prick in the corners. "Let a man do what has to be done."

She wished she could say she got to her feet steadily. That she owned her steps when she went to him and replaced her hand with the luke-warm gun. But she didn't. She was too far gone for that.

"Late bloomer…" she murmured as she leaned in. Letting it air out like a whisper, the only sentiment they would both allow as she pressed a kiss across his sweat temple. Feeling the feathers of his lashes drop closed as her lips zinged with the taste of acidic salt.

She didn't look back. Not once. Instead, she kept that image of him in her mind. His eyes closed, good hand curling around the stock of the gun. Relaxed and sure as his barrel chest rose and fell in the soft, slatted light. Feeling the ghost of his hand teasing across the pressure points as she closed the door behind her.

The sound of the singular hitching sob she let go of did remarkably little to cover the blare of the gunshot. But in all honesty, it wasn't like she'd expected anything less. After all, it only seemed fitting that Merle would go out of the world the same way he'd entered it. Loud and completely unapologetic.

She had a feeling Daryl would have liked that.

* * *

 **A/N #1: ** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.

 **Reference:** The gun in question is a Smith and Weston Ladysmith 60LS (five shot revolver, .38). It is tiny and purse-sized. Small enough to be hidden in Carol's waistband and under her clothes.


End file.
